Some Kind Of Spoiled
by Salmon Pink
Summary: He still struggles. He’ll always struggle. He’ll always have his hatred. He’ll always hold it close. Marcus x Oliver


Title: **Some Kind Of Spoiled**

Fandom: Harry Potter

Pairing: Marcus/Oliver

Rating: NC-17

Words: 1288

Notes: Questionable consent.

Summary: He still struggles. He'll always struggle. He'll always have his hatred. He'll always hold it close.

* * *

"Guess he's not here," George's voice says.

"Yeah, maybe he's back at the Tower, polishing his broom handle," Fred snorts.

The twins snicker, and their footsteps retreat from the Gryffindor changing room, the door swinging shut behind them.

Oliver pants through his nose and squeezes his eyes shut, silently willing them to come back.

"Aw, they're worried about you, Wood," Flint chuckles, breath washing over Oliver's neck.

Flint doesn't remove his hand from Oliver's mouth, doesn't release the pressure forcing Oliver's head to tilt back and into Flint's shoulder, holding his back in a permanent arch. Instead he runs his tongue along the shell of Oliver's ear, and laughs quietly when Oliver shivers.

"Bless, don't think their Captain can be left alone for five minutes without getting into trouble," Flint continues. "Of course, they're not wrong..."

Oliver growls, the sound low and muffled, and tries again to bite at Flint's hand. His jaw is angled back too sharply, though, chin forced up to point at the ceiling, and Flint doesn't even flinch when Oliver's teeth scrape over the leather of his gloves.

"I'd be worried, too, if I had to serve under a Captain like you."

It's awkward and painful to struggle against the grip around his waist, Flint's arm wrapped around him and trapping his own arms by his sides, but Oliver tries anyway. Flint exhales sharply, bracing his feet, and leans back slightly, pulling Oliver with him, urging his back into an even more taut position. Oliver swallows and grunts, shoulders aching faintly at the new angle.

"You always have to fight, always have to _pretend_, don't you?" Flint sighs, his tone mockingly disappointed.

Oliver wants to scream at him but can only manage a high-pitched whine when Flint presses a series of messy kisses against his neck. His breath feels ridiculously hot over the moist, sensitive skin, and Oliver jolts in Flint's arms when teeth scrape over his jaw.

"But you always beg for it in the end," Flint murmurs, a deadly whisper.

The arm around Oliver's waist loosens as Flint's hand dips lower, one of Oliver's arms still trapped but the other freed; Oliver instantly paws at Flint's wrist, trying to drag it away from him.

But Flint's fingers slip into his opened trousers, under his waistband and back into his boxers, brushing over the tip of Oliver's still-hard cock, and Oliver groans around the leather gloves and releases Flint's wrist. Flint wraps a hand around his arousal, firm and practiced, and quickly settles back into the rhythm he'd established before the twins' voices had interrupted them and he's dragged Oliver behind a row of lockers.

Flint has clearly grown impatient after the interruption, and Oliver hates that he can read Flint's emotions just by the way he's touched by him. He still remembers that first time Flint had cornered him; how he'd kicked and fought, the bruises on his hips, the black-eye Flint had sported the next day, the way Oliver felt like he might die the first time Flint made him come.

Now Flint uses every trick he's learned to make Oliver writhe in his grip and pant around Flint's hand.

"Always beg for it, always moan like a little _slut_," Flint hisses, his own breathing turning ragged.

He squeezes just a little too hard at the base, presses his thumb just above Oliver's balls, lightly scrapes his nails on every other up-stroke. Oliver shivers, whimpering almost constantly, desperate to thrust his hips forward but unable to with his back arched so sharply.

Flint presses his own erection against Oliver's arse, hips rolling in a constant wave. "See the way you fucking look at me during Quidditch matches," he snarls, his voice rough and low.

Oliver's free hand strays back to Flint's wrist, urging him on, but Flint slows down, thumb rubbing circles over the head of Oliver's cock, smearing pre-come over him, until Oliver moans and drops his hand again.

"Yeah, that's right," Flint growls, hand speeding up again, wrenching a groan from Oliver's throat. "Fucking love it like this, don't you? Me in control, me telling you what to do." His cock grinds against Oliver's arse, punctuating each word. "Me fucking _owning_ you."

Oliver whines, high and needy, vision blackening around the edges, overwhelmed by the tight feeling in his groin, the way Flint's grip on him is just the right side of painful, and then he's coming, faint from lack of air, dizzy and desperate, Flint's lips pressed against his throat and his hand milking every last drop of his release.

He's still trembling from sensation when Flint abruptly releases him, and he tumbles to the floor.

He knows what's coming next.

Flint's hand grips Oliver's hair, roughly dragging him to his knees.

This is always the way it goes; Flint forcing pleasure upon him, then demanding the favour be returned. At first it had been blackmail, promising to let everyone know exactly how hard and fast Oliver liked it, the way he'd moan for his supposed arch-rival to touch him. But something has changed since then, something that makes Oliver forget to refuse, something that makes Oliver fight less, something that makes Oliver anticipate Flint's attacks.

Something Oliver doesn't want to know about himself.

Instead he draws in a deep breath as Flint cups his chin, jerks his head up, and then Flint's hand is drawing down his zipper, leaking cock springing free, and there's no more time to think.

Oliver takes Flint into his mouth, the taste painfully familiar, and quickly begins to suck, cheeks hollowing.

Oliver tries to work some technique, tries to speed Flint's release along, but Flint is more interested in forcing his way as far in as he can.

Oliver gags and pulls back, coughing, always needing time to loosen his throat.

Flint scoffs, hair still tangled in his hair, and Oliver glares up at him and leans forward again.

Flint doesn't try to pressure him this time, just lets Oliver's tongue press against the veins, lets his cock drag over the roof of Oliver's mouth

"Yes, that's it," he purrs, never content to stay silent. "Such a fucking pretty mouth, so perfect for a whore."

Oliver squeezes his eyes shut and tries not to listen. Flint's words rip through him, caress him, when he's hard and desperate, but now they make him angry and bitter.

"Fucking red and gold _whore_."

Oliver grips Flint's thighs hard enough to leave marks and opens his throat, takes Flint as far in as he can. Flint moans appreciatively, all but shouts when Oliver swallows around him, and Oliver lets Flint fuck his mouth in short, sharp motions and hums around his flesh.

"Yes, fuck, _yes_, so good," Flint mumbles, hips rolling, and Oliver feels his throat begin to burn and knows Flint's close. "Perfect, yeah, fucking whore, pretty little, nh, yes, _fuck_!"

Flint pulses and comes down Oliver's throat, drawing out enough that his release paints Oliver's tongue, the last of it smearing over his lips. Oliver gags again, and swallows thickly, rubbing the back of his sleeve over his mouth.

Flint is leaning heavily against the lockers, cock still hanging out, eyes hooded, smirking down at him. He's slow and deliberate as he tucks himself back into his trousers, eyes never leaving Oliver's face, and then he pushes himself upright and holds out a hand for Oliver.

Oliver glares up at him. "Fuck you, Flint."

Flint shakes his head, a filthy smile quirking his lips. "See you next time, Wood," he says, and turns, stalking out of the changing rooms, a swagger in his step.

Oliver stays curled on the floor, the cold of the tiles seeping into his skin, already half-hard again, and shivers.

Something's changed. He's just not ready to acknowledge it yet.


End file.
